


we are lost men

by drow



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, the classic sharing a hotel room scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-17 01:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16506470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drow/pseuds/drow
Summary: He wonders what John is thinking right now, with his hand raised as if to stroke his cheek. He wants to say, 'what are you doing, you damned fool' but instead. Instead, he closes his eyes.





	1. and so it is us,

**Author's Note:**

> i'm only at the end of chapter 2 in this game so like don't spoil anything for me please?? this is just a little thing for my john x arthur needs lol

 

Everything feels so different, all of a sudden—and maybe that’s when it should’ve hit Arthur before it all came down on him and left him a rotting corpse. But, well, Arthur has always been loyal to Dutch and the gang. He trusts, and. And he doubts, even though it doesn’t really change anything, not when Arthur says ‘ _okay_ ’ to whatever Dutch says or requests.

 

His love for Dutch is different than Hosea’s, in that regard. He can’t just make Dutch sit down and tell him all about his doubts and how he thinks Dutch is unable to see the bigger picture, not anymore. He simply tips his hat and says, ‘ _okay_ ’.

 

Hosea tells him it’s not healthy, what they’re doing. Running and running and. . . well, it’s all they do. They run and while it isn’t right, Arthur stays silent. And whenever he opens his mouth Dutch is quick to respond with his famous lines, ‘I know what I’m doing’ and ‘don’t doubt me, not now’.

 

Then they make it to Horseshoe Overlook, their first camping spot after the whole mess up in the mountains and Dutch is scared, worried, skittish, but Arthur thinks, ‘this is going to be alright, from now on’.

 

He is wrong but what else is new.

 

Instead, he hunts, kills, robs, steals. He _tries_. And Dutch tells him, ‘you’ll betray me in the end’ and he’s so, so wrong that it hurts, perhaps. He doesn’t even remember the feeling of hurt, anymore. He feels empty and painfully lost.

 

He doesn’t stop being himself, of course; bullying John and Uncle and writing and drawing and doing everything that he simply is used to doing.

 

He draws a lot more often, though.

 

It’s something the other gang members sometimes make fun of. A guy like Arthur, full of scars and a never-ending darkness in his eyes, so passionate about something so, so trivial. But drawing has always been a big part of him, ever since he was a little kid under Dutch and Hosea’s wing, trying to survive and _learn_.

 

“You was always special to me, Arthur,” one day Dutch tells him.

 

But the words, ‘ _I expect you’ll betray me in the end_ ’ never leave his mind.

 

When he was young, he loved the adventures. Riding his horse, escaping from the law, robbing, killing—but now, knowing the end of all this, it just leaves him with a hint of sadness and a question, ‘ _what will I do after all this?_ ’

 

He doesn’t know.

 

So, he draws.

 

…

 

Arthur realized his love for animals from a very young age. They were his friends, before the gang. He loved cats, dogs, sheep, horses, pigs. . . they were affectionate but most importantly, simple. People weren’t simple. They were complicated and Arthur remembers doing his best to avoid that kind of people, with the unrecognizable glint in their eyes.

 

(Makes him wonder now, the reason why he chose to trust Dutch out of them all. The man with the plan. The most difficult of them all.)

 

And so he draws animals whenever he can.

 

“Arthur,” John Marston’s voice rears him back from his thoughts. When Arthur doesn’t answer, he calls him again.

 

Arthur simply replies with a terse, “ _What._ ”

 

“What are you doin’?”

 

“Well, what does it look like I’m doin’?”

 

“It ain’t that, it’s just. . .” John clears his throat and looks away for a few seconds. A clear sign of something that won’t end well. For Arthur, anyway.

 

“Out with it,” he closes his journal with a sigh. “What happened.”

 

“Nothin’,” John replies a tad too fast. “I’m—”

 

“Kid, I really ain’t in the mood,” Arthur says. “What happened? What could’ve _possibly_ happened? I leave you for two goddamn hours—”

 

“I wasn’t lyin’ when I said nothin’ happened. I’m just bad at this, I was jus’ goin’ to—”

 

Arthur simply gives up and tries to wait patiently as John deals with whatever’s going through in his mind. He opens his journal again and looks at his unfinished chickens. He messed up their beaks but other than that, pretty good.

 

When he looks up, he catches John looking at his journal with a weird look on his face.

 

“You alright now?” He asks.

 

“Yeah,” John replies, clearly more at ease. “Wasn’t kiddin’ when I said nothin’ happened, though, really. Nothing besides me realizin’ a few things, that is.”

 

“Yeah?” Arthur says, trying to appear as curious as he can in this situation. “Like what?”

 

John pauses, with that weird, unfamiliar look on his face again and looks as if he wants to see inside Arthur, which makes him feel uncomfortable. “Do you remember us back then? Bein’ kids?”

 

“Don’t remember a time I was one, no.”

 

John chuckles, “That’s fair, but not what I was tryin’ to say. Back then we were eager, stupid—”

 

“Well, good to see one of us stayed the same, at least.”

 

“—and we didn’t think much about what we were doin’. We were bad men, sure but we _lived_.”

 

Arthur hums and looks back at the forest and narrows his eyes like he’s trying to remember something. “Yeah, I remember that. Livin’, killin’, robbin’.  . . and doin’ all those things only ‘cause we could and ain’t nobody would dare to stop us.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“And that’s why you left. Because somethin’ got in the way of that life you lived so gloriously.”

 

Arthur can already see John’s face in his mind, with his dumb eyes wide and corners of his mouth down. So he doesn’t look. He turns his gaze at his journal again, at his chickens and thinks about the past, the things they’ve done. _Our time is over,_ he wants to say but admittedly, it scares him. Saying it makes it even more real than it already is.

 

When he finally looks up from the chickens, John’s gone.

 

…

 

They rescue Sean and return him back to camp.

 

Everyone forgets their sorrows for a few hours, even Dutch, who is shouting and singing and dancing. He shouts, “Tonight we celebrate!” and Arthur figures, why the hell not. He sings by the campfire, drinks a little, eats Pearson’s stew and by the end of it he’s too tired and too full, but, also _happy_ , he thinks.

 

He tries to make his way to his tent but manages to fall down, instead. The thought of the energy he’d spend trying to get up makes him feel nauseous, so he decides to lay on the dirt instead.

 

When he wakes up, he’s in his bed with a jacket laid over him that isn’t his own.

 

…

 

“Arthur,” John Marston calls to him, from the other side of the goddamn camp. He walks towards him quickly before the fool embarrasses them both further, shooting an apologetic glance at Susan, who’s murmuring something about ‘useless cowboys’ and their noise.

 

John looks a little shameful, at least, by the time Arthur makes his way to him. “Why the hell are you always so eager to wake half the goddamn camp?”

 

“I’m sorry,” John whispers. Because he’s stupid.

 

“It ain’t even mornin’ yet, for Christ’s sake.”

 

“I know,” John, the fool, whispers. “I’m sor—”

 

“And why are you whisperin’?” Arthur asks. “Ain’t like they can hear us from this far, lest you don’t shout like a _goddamn idiot_ to the other side.”

 

“I—” John starts in his stupid whispering voice again but then stops, like he realized his mistake. Arthur feels a smile creeping on his face and before he knows it, he’s chuckling like a fool in the kid’s face. He covers his mouth and tries to calm himself. _Great_ , he thinks. _I’ve finally lost my damn mind_.

 

He looks at John and catches him smiling, with his eyes crinkling and shining and. And Arthur thinks, _I want to draw him like that_.

 

Then, _oh_.

 

He sobers up quickly after that.

 

“Well,” he clears his throat. “Before I forget, I put your jacket on my desk. Take it before you. . . do whatever.”

 

John stays silent.

 

“And next time? Just leave me wherever you find me, alright?” Arthur says. “It’s embarrassin’.”

 

“Right,” John finally talks. “Sorry for carin’, I guess.”

 

Arthur doesn’t know how to respond to that.

 

“Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the train Mary Beth mentioned. Full of wealthy folk, she said, rollin’ down through Scarlett Meadows just south of the stale border.”

 

Arthur sighs.

 

“At night. Not too guarded,” John continues. “Seems like a perfect opportunity to me.”

 

“You wouldn't see an opportunity if it bit you in the ass,” Arthur says. “Stoppin’ a train? Just ain’t worth it.”

 

“Sure, but. What if we forced a train to stop?”

 

After a healthy dose of bullying and sighing and regretting, Arthur and John have a plan to rob a train for the sake of money, in five a.m. no less.

 

Arthur yawns.

 

“We should rest a little while we can,” John says. “I reckon we’ll both start from Valentine?”

 

“Yeah, them oil wagons go through the town every now and then,” Arthur says. “Would be wise to get our sleep there.”

 

“Alright,” John says.

 

They ride into Valentine.

 

 

 


	2. against the whole world.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He notices his gentle eyes first, as he always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo i finally finished this little thing!! i really, really like this pairing so expect more from me but thank yall for the nice comments and kudos ♡♡

 

Being tired makes them both chatty, Arthur realizes, because, well. It’s been a long time their banter stopped being anything but both of them bringing up the past, deepening their scars, being determined to erase anything they had. The _code_ had been important to Arthur, still is—

 

(But not as strong. The code was everything they built and yet, it’d been that one line between good and bad, _morality_. They had their own rules, their own freedom, in exchange for their morality. Somedays, when the camp is quiet and dark and when Arthur is hit with an overwhelming melancholy, he thinks to himself, _maybe we really are the only obstacle to a world edging towards improvement._ )

 

—and. . . above all that, they were family.

 

Arthur remembers the old days too, being only twenty-two, welcoming little John into their gang and teaching him everything Dutch and Hosea taught him. Being a mentor alongside those two, he learned to love, protect, _see_.

 

Dutch said to him once, “You were just a blind child before you joined us. Before I taught you everythin’ about life.”

 

Long time ago, now.

 

They walk into the hotel, their steps getting sloppier and their eyes getting heavier the second they step into it. The place is warm, smells pretty good too. Things he usually doesn’t care about but it’s nice.

 

“Two rooms, please,” John says.

 

“And a bath for my friend here,” Arthur chimes in, ignoring the offended look John throws his way.

 

“We ain’t got time to waste—”

 

“Shut your damn mouth and get yourself in t—”

 

“Fellers,” the hotel owner says in a quiet voice, making them realize how loud they were being, and clears his throat lightly. “Not that I don’t ‘preciate hearin’ your delightful voices in, what, six? _Six_ in the mornin’ but I’m afraid I only have one room available for today.”

 

 _Great_.

 

“Great,” John voices his thoughts.

 

Arthur sighs, as he often does nowadays, “Just. . . just give us the damn room and ready this feller’s bath. We ain’t stayin’ for long, anyways.”

 

John goes to have his bath after murmuring about his rotten luck, and the hotel owner says something about the bed being too small but Arthur is _tired_ and all he wants is a few hours of sleep before his day gets more difficult.

The room is smaller than the ones Arthur stayed before and the bed _is_ quite tiny, damn his luck.

 

It’s not like they haven’t shared a room, let alone a bed before. But after John returned from his yearlong holiday, Arthur made his disdain shown towards him whenever possible. Always reminded him that he wasn’t part of _his_ family no more. John tried hard—Arthur remembers more clearly now, being rid of the rage that used to cloud his mind—to put everything behind him, having realized that the gang was everything he had and he’d showed many times that he _regretted_.

 

Arthur remembers refusing to accept that and remembers, a little too well, John stopping after a while. That’s what he’d wanted from the beginning but it felt like a statement, somehow. One that he should’ve been prepared for, but wasn’t.

 

They _are_ getting a little better, he supposes, and knows he shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. They are both men who survived through harsh conditions. They’ve always been a part of a group on the run and therefore never had too much privacy.

 

Arthur doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the tiny bed thinking about the ways this could be anything but an awkward experience for both of them, but apparently, he’s been thinking long enough for John to finish his bath and come up to the room.

 

“You waited for me?” John teases. Then, he sees the bed. “Oh.”

 

“You know what?” Arthur doesn’t let himself dread any longer and just. . . _gets in_ and moves as close as he can to the wall until his back and legs hurt. He doesn’t even want to think about how funny he must look right now. “Come on.”

 

“You can’t be serious,” John says.

 

“Listen, Marston, I’m tired, and we’ve got a big day ahead of us,” Arthur says, trying not to lose his patience. The more this stretches out, the more it seems like a bad idea. “Ain’t like we haven’t done this before.”

 

The fool opens his mouth and Arthur gets ready to just give everything up and go to sleep (it’s _six_ in the damn morning), but John actually surprises him and gets in the bed.

 

The bed is really, really small.

 

Even with his back pressed against the wall a little painfully, Arthur has to hold John’s arm for him to not fall, because the idiot is determined to not let his body touch his, in the tiniest bed they’ve probably ever laid on.

 

“You can’t possibly be comfortable like this.”

 

“We should’ve gone to another hotel,” John says. And goddamn him, he doesn’t stop _wriggling_.

 

“You’re slippin’,” Arthur grunts and tries to pull him closer. “Stop _movin_ ’, goddammit.”

 

John, for one holy second, actually listens to him and Arthur uses the opportunity to grab him by his shoulder and press his body against him. “Hey, Marston.”

 

John clears his throat. Arthur can't even see the idiot's face because of their position. “Yes?”

  

“Let’s keep this between us, alright?”

 

John falls asleep first, with his head falling on Arthur’s chest with a ‘thud’.

 

Arthur closes his eyes and ignores the way his chest tightens.

  

…

 

He wakes up, after a few minutes of trying to acknowledge the solid warmth pressed close to his side and to nervous fingers trailing lightly over his face. For a short, horrible moment, he thinks, _Mary_ —but, of course, she’s not here. _Why the hell would she be here._ The other alternative would be John, obviously, but it’s so absurd that his mind shuts off for a while and he simply stays still, with John pressed up against him—

 

(And it’s so much more personal than the other times, now that he thinks about it. John’s _everywhere_ , now. With his surprisingly soft hair, breath, legs, arms and with his curious fingers. . . Arthur doesn’t _understand_ but he knows that he doesn’t feel out of place here, with everywhere filled with John, John, _John_.)

 

—and with his fingers and soft breath and.

 

Arthur opens his eyes, slowly. John gets startled but his fingers stay on his face, and his other hand is raised and he doesn’t let it drop either. Everything is blurry but that doesn’t stop Arthur allowing himself to _look_ , after years of avoiding the man whenever possible.

 

He notices his gentle eyes first, as he always does. His gentle eyes first and his expressive mouth the second.

 

(But _his eyes_. Arthur has always found John Marston’s eyes fascinating. Might’ve drawn them a decade or so ago, in fact.)

 

He wonders what John’s thinking right now, with his hand raised as if to stroke his cheek. He wants to say, ' _what are you doing, you damn fool_ ', and perhaps he should, but instead. Instead, he closes his eyes.

 

John continues the movements of his fingers, and strokes his cheek with his other hand and Arthur is so damn _lost_ but it’s worth it. It’s still frightening, enjoying the soft breaths of _John Marston_ on his face enough to not give a damn about it.

 

He feels John getting closer, and his heart beats faster with it.

 

Then, soft fingers turn hard as both hands cradle his head, making Arthur open his eyes to the abrupt change, and he doesn't know what he expected but he sure as hell did not expect for John to place a light kiss on the corner of Arthur’s mouth. And Arthur. . . Arthur _doesn’t understand_.

 

“John Marston,” he murmurs, his fatigue (that came from the lack of sleep or the fool beside him, he doesn’t know) evident from his voice. “You fool.”

 

“Good mornin’,” John raps.

 

“It's probably afternoon, by now,” Arthur says first. Then, “Mind explainin' what the hell just happened?”

 

“I don’t know,” John says. He looks calm, collected, which irritates Arthur for some reason, but Arthur doesn’t say anything, even though it feels like this should be. . . well, more important. Like they should talk about it.

 

But John, with his hands still stroking Arthur’s cheekbones, looks _content_. And it’s such a rare sight that Arthur forgets everything for a while and simply asks himself, _why the hell not_.

Of course, it’s stupid. But, now, in this tiny bed with John Marston and his beautiful smile, the world feels a little lighter, prettier. And Arthur, for the second damn time, has the stupidest urge to draw the gorgeous fool beside him.

 

Arthur wants this moment to stay _forever_. He wants the time to stop so he can get take his journal out and draw John Marston, with his scars, soft eyes, mouth, alongside his sketches of chicken, horses and the world. Alongside everything he finds interesting and beautiful in this world. He doesn't understand this sudden change but. Damn it all.

 

Time continues to do its thing, of course.

 

And it does so in quite the awkward way.

 

Arthur, the halfwit he is, clears his goddamn throat and manages to hurry out of the room without looking at John’s eyes once, leaves the hotel and proceeds to wait for him outside.

 

Even his horse looks as if he’s pitying him. Jesus.

 

John comes out of the hotel after a few minutes and refuses to look at him, the content look on his face long gone—

 

(Which is fair, Arthur thinks. He just doesn’t know how to deal with this situation, or whatever the hell they can call it.)

 

—and they continue on.

 

They try to act as if nothing happened. They steal a few sheep, try to sell it to an auction, which doesn’t go entirely according to plan and at the end of it all the Pinkertons find them, Herr Strauss somehow manages to get shot, they kill half the goddamn town and escape.

 

They move the camp and he doesn’t talk to John for a few days.

 

But he doesn’t let himself forget the feeling of his hands on his face, his soft breaths, his kiss, and he still doesn’t understand a damn thing but maybe that’s better. They are only memories, for now. And not entirely bad ones. 

 

The new camp feels more secluded, somehow. Everybody’s getting more restless. Dutch. . . Dutch _talks_ and doesn’t stop, and they try to get back into the flow of it all.

 

He doesn’t talk to John for a few days, yes, but one night, he finds him in front of his own bed, looking at the pictures he’d put up of people who matter to him. He remembers as if it was yesterday, him ripping off the picture of John and himself after learning about how he abandoned the gang.

 

John stays silent for a while, looking at the pictures with an odd expression on his face. Then, he turns to Arthur and asks, “Do you wanna pretend this never happened?”

 

And Arthur hesitates. Hesitates long enough for John to nod and take a step back to leave but Arthur’s hand, as if automatically, grasps the other man’s arm before he could walk away.

 

“It scares me,” Arthur starts, exhaling shakily. “This. . . whole thing. Whatever it is. I—I mean it’s new and—”

 

“Sure.”

 

“—and _yeah_. No.”

 

“Yeah? No?”

 

“I mean _no_. No, I don’t wanna pretend this never happened.”

“Good,” John murmurs. “C’mon, let’s ride out.”

 

“Ride out? It ain't even—”

 

“Arthur,” John interrupts him and his eyes are shining, like the time they were in the tiny hotel room but different, somehow. They are lit, now, like a raging fire. Wild, hungry. _Oh_. “Let’s ride out.”

 

“Okay,” Arthur whispers.

 

They ride out.

 

Arthur feels like he’s on fire throughout the entire ride, and it doesn’t even last that long and he doesn’t even remember getting on his damn horse. They are both silent and a little too fast, but anticipation makes all the close calls with the trees worth it.

 

They stop at a secluded area. John doesn’t even wait for Arthur to unmount and just pounces on him, making Arthur chuckle, even though he feels like he’s burning and his chest feels a bit too tight. “Wait, wait—”

 

“ _C’mon_ —”

 

Arthur pushes John's hands away and says, laughing, “Let me get off my goddamn horse first—”

 

But after all that, well, he doesn't know. Some would call it bliss, perhaps.

 

He doesn’t know who leans in first but it doesn’t matter. Their mouths meet, tentatively at first, like they are still unsure if this is alright. John’s mouth is surprisingly soft and his light stubble feels good on his skin. He focuses on these new sensations, tries to memorize them.

 

Then, John’s hands are in Arthur’s hair and it gets pretty intense.

 

Arthur wraps his arms around him, like he wants to swallow him whole, getting encouraged by the sounds that John makes and the bastard pushes into his arms until Arthur nearly fucking falls—

 

("Easy!"

 

"Sorry, _sorry_.")

 

—and he  _explores_ him, with his tongue, hands, everything. He rubs his lower back, but forces himself to stop—he doesn’t know the boundaries, if there should even be boundaries, and it’s _frustrating_ , but John decides that for him, placing Arthur’s hands on his ass with such certainty that Arthur thinks, _we either finally died or lost our damn minds, because this ain’t the world I’m livin' in._

John’s hands never leave Arthur’s hair after that and Arthur finds a new kind of pleasure that comes from squeezing John Marston’s backside. Hearing the fool’s sighs, licking into the fool’s mouth and everything that he does makes him want to never stop.

 

He can't get enough of him.

 

But, naturally, they have to breathe, and so Arthur tilts his head back after minutes that felt like hours, with their foreheads still touching. He places kisses all over John’s face and feels, more than sees, the corners of his mouth twitching.

 

“Wait,” John says when Arthur starts to place wet kisses on his neck. “This ain’t a one-time thing.”

 

“No,” Arthur says surely. “Don’t reckon I’d be able to stop after this, anyway.”

 

“Good, alright,” John lets out a relieved sigh. “I just want you to know. Things are changin’.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And, and I just feel like—I don’t know, like I’d be lost without you.”

 

Arthur wants him so much that it hurts at this point but he isn’t enough of a man to say this to him. Instead, he says, “ _Shut up_. God, you’re embarrassin’.”

 

John shakes his head, his chest shaking with silent laughter.

 

“But, me too, I guess,” he says quietly. Because, hell. It’s the truth.

 

They ride back to camp slowly. They talk and talk and _talk_.

 

Arthur draws John Marston first thing in the morning and doodles a stupid heart next to it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys saw the "a ♡ m" in the game right???? how fucking cute is that??


End file.
